I met you only once, but it seemed I knew you since ages…

As I sit and write this, strains of the popular song ‘Roop Tera Mastana’ from the 1960s movie ‘Aradhana’ waft from the neighbouring computer. I remember you. The man who composed the music for this song – Sachin Dev Burman - may not be so relevant in this context, but it is the man who assisted Sachin ‘karta’ – his son Rahul aka Pancham – whose name springs to my mind. You were a diehard fan of Pancham. You had the careerspan of Pancham on your fingertips. You simple swore by his music. There was never a dull moment for you when his compositions used to play, or so you told us.

I met you in person only once – part of a huge crowd which had gathered to seek your ‘darshan’ at the popular Park Street cafe Flurys. It was crowded as usual for a weekend, but you had asked me to arrange for a table. But the moment I mentioned your name to the staff there, they got about arranging for a table. As you came and asked me: ‘kemon achish?’, it seemed I was talking to the doting uncle who was asking for his nephew. That was the first and last time I met you. And that was more than another evening for me, as I recall it now.

I have been a moody and disobedient child. I find it difficult to take orders. Which is what got me into an argument someone much older than me on Twitter (which is where I ‘met’ you for the first time). The person told me not to say things online which did not suit her sensibilities. I retorted that no one owns the online forum. Which is where, you stepped in and told me: ‘If I told you to stop, would you disobey me?’ I don’t know how, but I instantly stopped. And the day next, I apologised to the person, which is when you patted my back by saying: ‘Yes son, you have grown up’. And that’s how, you became a father-figure for me, like so many of my friends on Twitter.

As I sit and write this, fighting back my tears, coming to terms with the fact that I will never be able to hear those words of encouragment from you, I know that you will rebuke me if I break down. Korbo, lorbo, jeetbo – those three words are ringing in my ears. There were these moments as well, when I let my angst out on Twitter and told you how I’m unable to cope with my working hours, and how you told me: ‘When my back is against the wall, I demolish it….and don’t give up so soon.’ Yes, I will follow those words to the core.

You were a Ladies’ Man on Twitter. But there was never a moment when one could pointer a finger at you and say you were being cheap. You had that innate ability, that flair to turn the smallest of conversations online into a colourful discussion, without making it an argument that would end up spewing hatred all around.

There are people I know, online and offline, who have known and interacted with you much more than I have. Maybe I don’t deserve to write this post at all, because I started following you on Twitter much later than our common friends there. But then, I could not stop myself, as I remember your last words to me just a couple of days before: ‘Now you know what Calcutta means to me?’

Yes, now I know what the world and the people around you meant to you. You were, are and will remain the Emperor of our hearts Abhijit Da.

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